It's still a point of some confusion that there is more than one veteran gospel group called The Five Blind Boys. Arsenio Orteza talked to THE FIVE BLIND BOYS OF MISSISSIPPI.

In the 50s such occurrences took place all the time. "The Spirit ran so high when the Blind Boys hit a church," wrote the British gospel music historian, Viv Broughton, "that people went into comas. Those who didn't come out of it were ferried off in ambulances."

According to Foster, that still happens. "Many times we have had ambulances and fire departments there for when people would get so excited they'd have to go to the hospital. It was something like that Sunday night in Albany. The people was fainting and passing out all over the floors, from rejoicing."

For many gospel music lovers, it's that particular aspect of the music that, more than any other, distinguishes it from other musical genres: its ability to literally take its performers and audiences higher, to give them genuine out-of-the-body experiences without the aid of chemical stimulants. And it's that aspect, perhaps more than any of the technical ones, that for many serves to measure the music's authenticity, to wit, that if it can move them so relentlessly, it must be tapping into a higher power rather than merely going through the motions.

So by continuing to wreak holy havoc wherever they play, the Five Blind Boys Of Mississippi reassert not only their own ongoing validity but also the validity of traditional gospel music as a whole. That's why, despite the group's love for country music, for instance ("I'm a country fan," says Foster; "all the Blind Boys love country"), and their carefulness to include a variety of musical styles on their new albums, they're always sure to feature what Foster calls "the hard stuff", songs featuring the revved-up, shouting style that Archie Brownlee, the group's first lead singer, made into their signature sound before he died from pneumonia in 1960.

"The scream that we do? The Blind Boys created that," says Foster. "People be listening for us to do that." And what else does today's Blind Boys crowd expect from the group?

"The old standards," answers Foster. "You can't go nowhere without singing "Leave You In The Hands Of The Lord" and that hymn "There's A Man Over The River Giving Sight To The Blind". They wanna hear that. You do them no matter what." But when it comes to choosing the other songs for a given programme, there's a slightly more complicated method involved.

"You sing what's being played in that area," explains Foster. "And if you sing that, you gonna be a hit with the people. Usually, when you sing in an area, you gotta do a radio interview so that the people know you are in town. Then you gotta talk to the disc jockey and ask him what he's playing."

Which leads to the story of one of the Blind Boys' more interesting attempts at dealing with DJs. It turns out that the group recorded the song "Pilot Of The Airwaves" for their 1981 'I'll Make It Alright' album with the expressed purpose of currying DJ favour.

"When I recorded that," says Foster, "we sent every main disc jockey in the United States a copy with his name in the song. Whoever the disc jockey was in a particular city, we'd put his name in the record."

So after cutting the album version of the song, Foster spent another day in the studio, painstakingly recording the names of approximately 200 disc jockeys for insertion into the demo versions of the song that was eventually sent to the DJs. And, therefore, instead of singing "Pilot of the airwaves, sweet personality, no one could take your place", Foster would sing, for example, "Mr Casey Kasem, sweet personality, no one could take your place." It worked.

"That song would've did us no good no way by itself," says Foster, "but it helped that disc jockey play us in that area."

Which, in turn, helped draw attention to the LP's title track. "Til Make It Alright'," Foster recalls, "was a really big one for us. It still is."

Perhaps the most interesting song on the album, however, is the one that opens side two, "I'm Going On With Jesus". As the guitar, cymbals and piano crash into the sustained opening chord, Foster launches into a spirited sermonette where he recounts the time a semi-famous R&B musician offered him lots of money to record soul music. The sermonette climaxes with Foster's passionate refusal.

The really interesting part about the sermonette is the story behind it. "That actually happened," says Foster. "The man's name was Curtis Womack (the soul singer Bobby Womack's brother). He had 10 tracks already cut, OK? And he wanted me to sing the rock and roll on the tracks." But contrary to the account in Foster's sermonette, his answer to Womack was neither as lyrical nor as cut-and-dry. "We talked," Foster admits, laughing. "I didn't actually say on the record what really happened. We was in a price war. And I said, the money what you're talking about ain't nothin' 'cause I can make that with the Blind Boys.' I wouldn't do it."